


Heat Lightning

by kosmickway (KMDWriterGrl)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMDWriterGrl/pseuds/kosmickway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara and Grissom's first kiss ... in an unlikely venue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is the first GSR fic I ever wrote so please, be gentle. 
> 
> 2) This is written in first person, so if that's not your thing, skip it. 
> 
> 3) This has a follow-up piece called "The Agony and the Ecstasy."

When Gil Grissom kisses me I’m forcefully reminded that I’m in love with him against my own best judgment. When his hands skim over my body like moths wings, when his mouth crushes mine hard enough to bruise, when I feel him shaking, so close to losing his cool center of calm, I know there isn’t going to be anyone else for me. Despite all the annoying day-to-day realities of our lives that keep us from being together (the age difference between us, his position as my supervisor) I’m still convinced that we are completely right for each other.  

Over the years I’d managed to convince myself that everything between us– the looks, the easy flirting, the occasional touches– was just a silly one-way crush, something puppy-dog and spun sugar left over from college. _I’ll get over it one day_ , I keep telling myself. _I’ll get over him when the right man comes along_. I also know, of course, that I’m kidding myself. 

 When I met him at Harvard I told myself I was falling prey to a typical teacher-student crush. I was young and bored. The guys at college were intellectual but none had the right combination of brains and body to keep me interested ... and I lacked the same thing for them. That’s why I liked Grissom so much as I got to know him. His mind attracted me– and his face, his body, his smile, the rest of the package kept me interested. We danced around each other for four years, me approaching, him falling back, and vice versa. But no matter who was doing the approaching and who was backing away, there were always those moments when we looked at each other and the current moving between us was intensely electric.  All these years later at a crime scene in the middle of Nevada, I finally realize that, as inconvenient as it is for him and as frustrating as it is for me, this is more than a crush and it isn’t going away. When he finally crosses the line and puts his lips on mine I realize I’m totally lost. 

We’re working on a case on top of Mount Charles. It’s a typical scenario for us– the killer who thinks the body will disappear out in the heat and harsh land, and our fight for evidence against a desert that’s unwilling to give up its dead. 

The body today has been cut into pieces and buried in metal footlockers–someone going to extraordinary means to make sure the victim will not be found, at least not without a ton of effort on our part. Buried bodies mean a long shift of digging and sifting, a lot of cataloguing of evidence from both the body and the ground surrounding it, and time consuming sweeps with the metal detector. We’ve been at it for nearly eight hours now– OT in spades– and Warrick and Catherine have taken off already with a first load of equipment and evidence to the lab so Greg can start a preliminary analysis. They’ll be back for Grissom and I and the rest of the equipment but it will be at least an hour– time for us to secure the scene and pack everything else up. 

“Sara, that’s enough for now,” Grissom calls. He strides over, ball cap in hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His t-shirt is sticking to his chest, lending definition to the hard muscles of his stomach. Despite Grissom’s lab geek appearance, he apparently works out like every other male concerned with his physique. My own stomach clinches as I have a brief vision of running my hands down his chest, along his stomach, down the waistband of his jeans. I order myself to stop. It’s hot enough without adding adrenaline and hormones to the mix.   

Gris helps me out of the hole where I’ve been bent over, excavating skull fragments. I’m sweaty and disgusting, dirt sticking to the exposed skin of my arms, neck, and face. My own tank top is equally clingy, soaked in sweat and streaked with sand and shale.  I straighten and stretch the kinks out of my lower back, wincing. Bending over for almost eight hours isn’t as easy as it used to be. 

“You okay?” Gris asks.  He hands me a bottle of cold water– he must have taken them from the cooler in the back of the Tahoe– and I slug back a third of it.  

“Shifts like this make me wonder why I don’t have a nice cushy job in the lab like Greggo.”

“Because you’d bore yourself silly inside of a week,” Gris responds. He puts a hand on the small of my back and gestures for me to walk forward toward the edge of the mesa, away from the scene.  “We can go sit down for a minute. Catherine just called to say they hit traffic on the way back into town. It’ll be awhile.”

We walk a few hundred yards away to a cluster of standing stones on the overlook that faces into the valley. The sun is starting to drop lower in the sky. Thank God. That means the temperature will start to drop.  I calculate in my head that the sun should be three-quarters set by the time Cath and Warrick make it back with the Tahoe, the temperature settling comfortably into the lower 80s. 

In the mean time I’m still sweating and my face is starting to itch from the sand and dirt. 

“Hold this,” I instruct Grissom and pass him the water bottle. I cup my hands. “Pour.” He does and watches with an analytical grin as I splash my face. 

“Vanity, thy name be woman,” he says smugly. His grin is both cute and completely infuriating– so are those one-liners he’s always popping off with.  

“Pomposity, thy name be Gil Grissom,” I retaliate, wiping my face with the inside of my t-shirt. “I don’t give a damn whether I look good. I’m just hot as hell.”

“My apologies,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “I won’t accuse you of vanity again.”

“I do actually care about how I look,” I correct him. “Just not at a crime scene.”

“You and Catherine both manage to look nice, crime scene or not,” he remarks.

Another thing that both infuriates and intrigues me. He can’t talk to me without bringing up Catherine. I know the history between them is greater than the history between us, though neither has ever said anything about it directly. I t’s widely known that Gris has known Catherine for over a decade, that she was one of his first friends in Vegas and the first person he recruited for the team. 

Beyond those facts it gets nebulous. _Apparently_ he knew something about Eddie’s affair with another woman but said nothing to Catherine. _Apparently_ he’s Lindsey’s godfather. And _apparently_ , though no one has ever said anything, they were once much more than just friends and colleagues. Though I’ve come to consider Catherine one of my closest friends, I’m also more jealous of her than I’d ever admit with regards to her closeness with Gris. It’s not the only thing that she’s got that I desperately want to have– her dancer’s grace, her easy friendship with Warrick, her position as senior CSI, and half of her wardrobe, among other things– but it’s the one thing I could easily find myself resenting her for.

“Save that one for the next time she’s dangling inside a garbage chute or I’m bagging chunks of decomposing flesh from the inside of a storm drain,” I reply. 

Grissom laughs. “Most men would say there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows how to get down and dirty.”

“Most men would,” I agree. “What do you say?”

“I say the dirtier the better.” He says it so candidly that I simply can’t tell whether he’s joking or not.  

“Men are all alike,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him. “You want a woman who’s tough enough to do a man’s job but cleans up nice and pretty at the end of the day. You want someone traditional enough to cook and clean but hip enough to indulge in kinky sex and swingers parties. How’s a woman supposed to keep up with all those wants and needs?”

“It’s a fairly hopeless situation,” he agrees. “Unless, of course, you happen to be the sort of woman who has it all together in one package.”

“Like Catherine?” I can’t help saying. 

He looks puzzled when he meets my gaze. “Like you. I mean, you ARE the woman who fires guns, takes apart cars, and is trained in three martial arts and still manages to clean up and go out on the town, right?” He grins. “And, as I recall, aren’t you the woman traditional enough to cook her own vegetarian dishes but kinky enough to join the mile-high club?”

I’m not as amazed by the compliment as I am by the fact that he’s remembered all of this about me. 

“I–um. I guess that does fit me pretty well,” I finally admit. “I’m just surprised you noticed.”

“I’ve been noticing you a lot lately, Sara,” he says in that quiet, intense voice of his. “And I know that you notice me. What I really want to know is whether this is personal or professional interest.” He steps toward me and into my space. 

“Gris, what are you doing?” I ask, since he’s making me nervous. I start to back up a step. 

“Conducting a little experiment,” he says as he moves toward me. “Just hold still.”

And then his hands are resting on either side of my neck, not rough, not meant to collar, but just to hold me in place. He lowers his mouth to mine and I’m lost in him. He tastes like peppermint. His mouth is warm and full and soft on mine. He’s gentle with the kiss but insistent, putting more pressure on the joining of our mouths with each second. His thumb brushes the hollow of my throat and stays there, feeling my pulse jump. 

He stops long enough to take a breath before he deepens the kiss, pressing me back against the flat standing stone just behind me, still warm from the sun. I moan against his mouth, overwhelmed by the feel of him, the sudden surge of heat and lust that flashes through me like lightning on a warm night. I clutch at the back of his shirt to hold myself up, everything I’ve ever known about how to kiss a man disappearing in the face of this, the most electric kiss I’ve ever experienced.   

“Sara,” he murmurs against my lips.  “Don’t forget to take a breath.”

I inhale and catch his scent, the combination of sweat and body wash, hot desert air, latex and print ink that belongs only to him. I can’t remember the last time I was so turned on by anyone’s smell. I want to sink down onto the ground and drag him with me, luxuriating in the feel of him, the smell of him, the way he tastes on my lips. God, if this is just a kiss, I can’t imagine what it must be like to make love to him. I have to stop the thought before I short circuit completely.    

“Gris,” I murmur, closing my eyes and letting my weight sink back against the stone. It’s a tortured cliche to say that my knees go weak but they honestly do. It feels as if someone has yanked the joints right out of my tibia. 

He brings the kiss to an end and starts to step back but I grab his wrist to hold him in place– not just because I want him there but also because I don’t know if I can actually stand upright without him. 

“Stay with me,” I whisper to him, not sure whether I sound desperately sexy or desperately needy. “Put your hands on me.”

His fingers move from their resting place on my neck to skip over my collarbone. They start a slow sweep down my sides until they reach the hem of my t-shirt. His fingers slip under the thin cotton and come to rest on my waist. He meets my gaze and his eyes are soft, very kind. 

“Sara, is this what you want?”

“You must know I haven’t wanted anything else for a very long time,” I whisper, my heart starting to hammer so hard I think I’m going to pass out. I’m terrified he’s going to end this.  “I’ve waited for you for so long.”

He must see the fear in my eyes or else he feels my pulse jumping because Grissom’s hand moves under my shirt, his palm hard and hot against my skin. He starts to rub my stomach in slow, gentle circles, a motion meant to soothe rather than arouse. “Easy, Sara. I’m not going to stop unless you tell me to. I just wanted to make sure I’m reading you right.” He smiles gently at me and brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “I’ve done enough to hurt you already. I don’t want this to hurt, too.”

“You couldn’t hurt me like this,” I tell him. “You’re too good to do that.”

He changes his caress of my stomach in to long lazy strokes from the top of my rib cage to the waistband of my jeans. He slides his fingers down, over my hips, closer and closer to my center, his eyes on mine the whole time. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s calculating and cataloguing my expressions for future reference. 

I lift my mouth to his and we’re kissing again, only this time with more passion. His fingers tighten until he’s gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, pulling me toward him. I wind my arms around him, kiss him with a ferocity that’s frightening, even to me. Someone moans– him or me, I honestly can’t tell– and we both gasp for air.  I don’t even realize I’m pushing my hips against his until I feel his arousal and then it only makes me move against him harder. He groans my name and moves a hand to the small of my back, molding me to him.

There’s a brief, tantalizing moment when I’m sure he’s going to push me down on the ground and take me right there. If he did, I have a feeling I’d die of shock long before I ever got around to dying of bliss under his hands. We’re both struggling with it, the impulse to throw off propriety and give in to the pangs of lust burning through both of us like a wildfire on the desert floor.            

There’s no time for that now. It’s growing darker and Catherine and Warrick will arrive back at any time with the Tahoe. We still have a scene to preserve and evidence to pack up. 

“Gris,” I murmur in his ear. “Take me home with you.”

He pulls back enough to see my face, to look in my eyes. He licks his lips, takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “God, Sara, I can’t get you out of my head,” he whispers to me. “I can’t even think straight.” 

I can’t believe I’ve managed to rock Gil Grissom’s unshakeable control. It’s unbelievably sexy. I kiss him again, slowly, softly. “Take me home,” I repeat. “Take me to bed with you.” Then, just to torture him, I whisper, “Pin me down.”

He groans. “I’ve been thinking about that since the moment you said it to me. I want to know what it feels like to have you moving under me.” His fingers brush the small of my back, massaging in small circles that feel wonderful to my tight muscles. “Let’s finish up here. Then I’m going to take you home.” His grin is wolfish. “We’re going to experiment.” 

END.

 


End file.
